Peace, by its Battles Told
by scientist in the stars
Summary: After a routine hunt, Sam ends up suffering some severe repercussions. But not everything is supernatural and normal can be just as dangerous. Pre-series.
1. Water is taught by thirst

Peace, by its Battles Told 

By: scientist in the stars 

A/N: I'm currently on spring break and am attempting to not waste it as I have the past three spring breaks--studying. Since I'm done with the whole applying-to-med-school-which-is-equivalent-to-a-journey into-the-bowels-of-hell process and am now waiting for the semester to end, I decided to confront my worst fear and actually write my own fanfic...instead of just reading. So here is my earnest attempt. 

WATER is taught by thirst; Land, by the oceans passed; Transport, by throe; Peace, by its battles told; Love, by memorial mould; Birds, by the snow. Emily Dickinson 

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The warm water sprayed down his back, cooling the heated skin. He turned his bruised face towards the nozzle, allowing the rest of the world to disappear as he concentrated solely on the water falling from the rusted metal shower head. 

In about five minutes, Dean would be banging on the door, yelling at him to stop being a pansy and get out. Knowing Dean, he would further follow that by some expletive threat and a promise for revenge if he used all the hot water again. Last time that had happened, Sam had woken up in the middle of the night with his right hand in a bowl of warm tap water and his sheets soaked with something that was yellowish and gave off a funky odor. 

At fourteen, Sam Winchester had wet the bed. Dean hadn't let him live it down for over a month. 

Right now, though the moment was his and he could finally let his guard down. The hunt had been rough. He hated wendigoes and the fight he had gotten into with his Dad about moving again, had thrown off his concentration. That had resulted in getting him thrown into a tree. 

It was bad enough that his father was mad at him but now the vegetation was also out to get him? He rolled his shoulders trying to work out some of kinks. Damn. For inhuman freaks, those monsters could throw pretty hard. 

Of course, Dean had come in, his shining armor— a leather jacket, torn jeans and a tousled graphic T-shirt displaying the name of some random heavy metal band—blazing in the silver moonlight and his sword— 12-guage metal flare gun, aimed at the "supernatural shit who was going to end up worse then dead for touching his Sammy." 

It did and when Sam regained consciousness, he heard the full version of the lecture on paying attention to his surroundings and not letting distractions cloud his mind while Dean kept a casual arm around him to make sure he wouldn't fall over. Or at least that was Dean's justification. 

In reality, they both knew Sam's head was probably only a little bit softer then Dean's...whose head was probably a little bit softer then pure diamond. So the chances of Sam having a concussion were slim, especially since John had already checked for signs of one and had announced Sam to be sullen but fine. 

Sam was too old to admit outright that he needed his big brother, especially in front of their father. Fortunately Dean had never required Sam to say the words. He had even regulated himself to the backseat, on the account of some heinous crime he had committed against the neighbor's rottweiler that liked to bay at the moon at 2 AM on Sunday mornings. 

Dean spent the hour drive humming Metallica and telling Sam that maybe he should sleep for a little because he looked worse then Bobby did after he was possessed by the ghost of an OCD housewife and woke up to a clean, organized junk yard. 

So Sam listened to his brother's voice, echoing deep in his chest in cadence with his heart beat, and the rain drumming on the roof of the Impala, the only home he's ever known, and nodded off. 

His father had woken him up when he screeched to a halt on the graveled driveway, as Newton's second law—a body in motion stays in motion, even if its environment comes to a rest—caused him to fly forward and almost hit the back of the bench seat. 

Dean easily caught him but this action caused the pain in his back to ignite and erupt like a fiery inferno, making him cry out loud. Luckily he managed to swallow back any further exclamations because Dean looked guilty as he muttered a quick apology and his dad looked border-lined pissed as he told the both of them to get in the house before they got sick. 

His dad took out the first aid kit, checked his pupils once again for a concussion and then quickly bandaged up the gash in his back. The fact that it didn't require stitches was his only lucky break of the night. 

He hated needles and getting his back sewn up would have been like coconut icing on a devil's food cake—which for the record is the only dessert that has ever made him puke. His first grade teacher had said it was because his angelic nature required even figurative evils to be purged from his body. Dean had said it was because of his weak stomach, which further proved him to be a girl. 

So after his dad had once again proclaimed him to be okay, which by Winchester standards meant he wasn't lying on the floor with his intestines pooling out of him, bleeding to death, and he had beat Dean 2 out of 3 at rock-paper-scissors (Dean always went for the scissors), he clambered into the shower ready for some peace and quiet. 

Unfortunately, five minutes had probably past because in the distance, he could hear Dean banging on the door; it actually sounded like a Zeppelin drum solo. Sam wanted to yell at him to go away or at least beg for a couple more minutes but he couldn't seem to get his voice to carry over the pounding. It was getting louder with each passing minute and was now accompanied by a strange roaring sound. 

Maybe Dean was playing a prank on him. The shower was supposed to be neutral territory but it wouldn't be the first time Dean had broken the rules. After the Nair incident of '92, Sam had learned to lock the door but Dean could get past a complex security alarm within the span of a few seconds, so antique doorknob with a lock that creaked everytime someone used it shouldn't be so hard to pick. He reached for the shower knob but his hands met thin air as the steam billowed around him. Suddenly it became harder to breath and Sam couldn't help but wonder if there were some internal injuries his father had missed. After all, it wouldn't be the first time. 

Before he could even start to panic about the lack of oxygen and the churning pain in the pit of his stomach, the world faded in and out, as Sam's differentiation between reality and nightmares became skewed. As shadows danced across his vision, Sam Winchester realized three things: it was close to midnight and he had a chemistry paper due tomorrow, Dean was going to kill him because there was no hot water left, and the floor was a lot closer than it should have been. 

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Cliffy...I know they're evil and I hate when other people leave them...but they are the perfect way to partion up the chapters. 

Please review and try not to leave too many flames...I've had way too many discouragments lately 

PS...I love English but my grammer is atrocious so i apologize for any mistakes


	2. Land, by oceans passed

Peace, by its Battles Told

by:Scientist in the stars

A/N: Here's part two. Thank you so much for the reviews. They were so encouraging that I spent most of today typing this up. It doesn't start off exactly where the last part left off and it shows a few more dimensions of John as well as displays Dean in his Big Brother role (which I love). 

Dean watched the lanky body of the six-foot brooding life form that was his baby brother disappear into the bathroom and smiled slightly. It wouldn't be long before Sam could counter Dean's usual "because I'm older" with a "but I'm taller." Sam was catching up to him in height as well as skills. He almost won the other day when they were sparring. Dean was going to have stop holding back soon. 

Glancing at the second floor landing, Dean weighed the chances of breaking his neck if the creaky wooden staircase suddenly crumbled to how badly he wanted that BLT, which was waiting to be made in kitchen downstairs. His stomach won out and he decided to risk life and limb for a sandwich, not that it would be the first time. 

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Dean added extra pickles before cutting the BLT into two even halfs and grabbing a can of soda and an apple—just because he didn't eat rabbit food like Sam, it didn't mean he didn't enjoy a healthy snack once in a while. He made his way into the shabby living room that was about the same size of the room he and Sammy were currently sharing (which was so tiny that he almost elbowed Sam in the eye when he putting on his socks this morning) settled down on the broken recliner and turned on the ancient television set that only got three channels. Luckily, it was October and so there always some late night horror movie playing. Granted the graphics were pathetic and the story line dry but it usually gave him a good laugh. 

Dean was just about to sink his canines into the wheat bread—he hated when Sam did the grocery shopping...all the junk food was replaced by fruits and white bread was always traded in for wheat—when his dad walked in. 

Dean swallowed down a protest when he switched off the Exorcist—it was just getting to the part that gave Sammy nightmares for three weeks the last time they had watched it...the kid had been six though— and sat down on fuchsia couch. His dad was a pacer and so, unless he was attempting to display some sort of authority, he tended to wear away both the soles of his shoes and varnish in the floor. 

"You need to stop coddling him, Dean. Sam's a big boy. He doesn't need you to kiss the booboo and give him a lollipop each time he gets hurt."

Dean sighed inwardly. It was always the same battle. "Dad, Sam's barely fifteen."

"Yeah and by the time you were his age, you already had dealt with a werewolf, a banshee, and salted and burned more spirits than your old man." There was something different in his voice and a soft smile on his face.

Dean realized it was pride. His dad may be a jackass at times but it was moments like this that made up for everything else. It reminded him of the father that used to exists before the fire and the demon and the hunting. 

Unfortunately, Sam never saw this side of their father because Sam had never known the man who built forts in the living room, who made sure he came home everyday before 6 so that he could play army soldiers with his son during bath-time, whose family was his number one priority. Family was still important but now keeping them alive and safe was far more imperative than making them happy. So, Dean fell into line, mainly in memory of the old dad and because Sam already had the drama queen role covered, but there were some things he wasn't about to compromised. 

"You know how much hunting gets to him. He's a lot more sensitive than you or me." 

His dad scowled. "Only because you insist on keeping his innocence intact."

"Look, I don't say anything when you drag him along on hunts or make him do research instead of letting him study but you don't get to tell me how to take care of him." Had Dean previously considered the words before they left his mouth, there was a good chance he wouldn't have said them. When it came to Sammy though, common sense and self-preservation were more of an afterthought than a main concern. 

"Watch your tone, young man," his dad growled, his hazel eyes hardening. "I'm your father and you need to start showing me some respect." 

"I will when you start acting like one." Shit, Dean internally swore. Sam was right, his big mouth was going to get him killed one of these days. 

"I do the best I can. And things would go a lot more smoothly, if you two listened to me instead of being ungrateful brats. I taught you how to be safe and how to protect yourself. Now I need to do the same for your brother because you can't always be around. One day, he's going end up on the bad side of a hunt not because we screwed up but because he's not fully prepared. Do you think I want you to blame yourself or me the next time Sam gets into trouble and we can't save him?" 

"And do you think Mom would have wanted this for us? Because I doubt that she dreamed of sons to grow up and become murderers." Dean winced as his words reverberated in the silent house. Damn it. He never learned. Closing his eyes, he waited for an explosion or better yet, for the ceiling to cave in. After all, he had just said the M-word. Right now, dying would be a blessing.

When the silence continued, he opened his eyes slightly and glanced at his dad, wondering what the man was waiting for. His dad wasn't known for controlling his temper, and though he had never before hit his kids, there was a first time for everything. 

Not that Dean didn't deserve it. He knew better then to use the memory of his mother as a point in an argument. And to make things worse, his dad actually looked sad. Over the years Dean had seen his father as driven, angry, obsessed, sometimes scared, especially when him or Sam got hurt, but never broken. 

For the second time that evening, a sudden noise, the sound of a body hitting something hard, interrupted the awkward moment. Dean froze, half-wondering if maybe he had imagined it but he didn't normally hallucinate, unless his body was filled with massive amount of tequila. The next thing Dean knew, both him and his dad were racing up the stairs, ignoring the groans as their boots hit each wooden step. 

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"Sammy," he shouted, banging on the bathroom door. He turned the knob but it resisted. Damn, the kid had locked it. 

His dad sighed and muttered something about his idiotic sons and their stupid pranks, before pulling out a safety pin and picking the lock. A few seconds later, a click was heard and door opened. 

A blast of steam hit his face. For a moment all he could see was white but it readily cleared as the cool air from the outside rushed in and replaced the bathroom fog. 

Everything seemed in place and the shower was still running. However, instead of hearing Sam's outraged cries at his family's impromptu invasion of his privacy, all Dean heard was the sound of water falling and his own thundering heartbeat. 

"Sammy, are you okay?" his father asked. When it was clear Sam wasn't answering, he nodded and Dean jerked open the curtains. 

Sam was lying on the floor, his long limbs awkwardly sprawled across the wet ceramic. Dean's world tilted on its axis and his knees gave out; he would have surely fallen had his dad not caught his arm and held him until the dizzness passed.

Dean regained his composure, thanked God, even though he had long since sworn off his beliefs in angels or anything good, that his brother's face was in the opposite direction of the descending water and shut off the shower. With his father's help, he hoisted Sam out of the shower and laid him on the crimson terry cloth towel that they had spread over the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. For a second, Dean had a vivid image of it being Sam's blood staining the tiles instead of the fiery red of the towel but he shook away the image as he placed another towel over his brother's lower body. 

"Come on, Sam. Open those puppy dog eyes of yours. Please Sam. You're scaring me. Sam, wake up. Now." The last word was from their dad and Dean stopped tapping Sam's face to glare at his father. But apparently the harsh command was just what Sam needed because he shifted under Dean's touch and then lethargically blinked. 

"D-d-dean?" 

Dean sighed. "Yeah kiddo. Geez, are you trying to give me and Dad heart attacks? Because I can take it but Dad's getting old. He's already over the hill and I'm pretty sure if you pull another stunt like this...well the next grave we're going to be digging will be his." 

"Smart ass," his dad smirked before laying a hand on Sam's shoulder. "What happened?" For once there was no authority or anger in his tone but rather a foreign gentleness tinged slightly with worry and fatherly love. Dean looked at his dad and saw the man that used to be hero not because he saved the world but because he loved his family, the man he followed around every moment of the day, the man he emulated. 

"I don't know. I heard Dean knocking and was about to tell him to go away but—" He swallowed hard and Dean and his dad traded a look. "Sammy?"

Instead of finishing the sentence, Sam gagged and Dean barely got him onto his side, before he started vomiting up today's breakfast and lunch as well as last night's dinner. 

"Sorry," he muttered, wiping his mouth and sagging back onto the floor. 

His father slowly stood and rubbed a hand over his tired face. "Dean, get your brother to the bedroom. I'll clean up in here and then we'll figure out what to do next." 

I know its slow go but the story's definitely starting to come along now. I apologize for the lack of drama but this background info was important. Please Review. 


	3. Transport, by throe: part A

Peace, by its Battles Told

by: Scientist in the stars

A/N: Since this update took a tad longer than the other two, its a little bit more involved. We're finally making headway on the Sammy mystery. Don't give up just yet. The plotline has fallen into place in my head so soon enough..it will fall into place on paper too...enjoy

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"Dude, I can dress myself," Sam's aggravated voice floated into the hall and John paused for a moment outside of his sons' room. 

"Yeah, because the last three times you tried you didn't end up on the floor surrounded in the vomited remains of those saltines I made you eat," Dean pointed out and John wondered if that's shrink's comment on sarcasm being a cover for deep psychological anger had some truth in it. That would certainly explain all those notes Dean got from each high school he ever attended about excessive violence and fighting on school grounds. 

"Well you know what they say...fourth times a charmed?" Of course, Dean had justified each fight by saying he was protecting his family, which in Dean speak, meant he was saving his little brother from the string of bullies he seemed to constantly attract. Honestly, it was like moths to a flame, and unfortunately his youngest always shined too brightly. 

"Look I don't know what your problem is. Remember, I used to help Dad change your diapers and give you baths. It's not like you have anything I haven't seen before." 

Sam sighed, something he's been doing a lot more lately. "It was bad enough you found me like that in the shower. Dad already thinks I'm weak. I don't want him to think that I'm also incapable of getting myself dressed." 

John shook his head. He had never considered Sam to be anything less than capable. He was always proud of the way his youngest adapted to any situation and how quickly he picked up things. John would never admit it, but he loved Sammy's kind and gentle nature; Sam understood people and strangers trusted him instinctively. 

It also scared him because Sam tended to only see the good side of human nature and John had been around long enough to know that the monster he hunted in the dark weren't the only ones in the world. John had served in two wars and had seen the true extent of human cruelty. He'd rather have his children be jaded than naïve. 

"Dad doesn't think your weak. He's just that strong, silent type so it's easy to confuse fear for disappointment. Don't worry, I do it all the time." Despite how annoyed his son was at him, Dean never stopped defending him. 

"Dean, he's never been anything less than proud of you. After all, you're the good solider, the one who always listens to orders and can take being thrown down three flight of stairs like its nothing more than a paper cut. You're not the one who faints after running into a lame-ass tree." Apparently Sam didn't find Dean's commitment as endearing. 

"Technically you got throw into the tree and you didn't faint until a couple hours later. Speaking of which, I thought you didn't have a concussion." 

"I don't—get off of me Dean, I'm fine. My pupils responded perfectly to light, I wasn't feeling dizzy or nauseous and I'm not falling into a coma."

"So what's with turning our room into upchuck city? You haven't thrown up this much since you got food poisoning from that KFC. By the way, I always found that hilarious. After years of eating in rundown diners and frozen gas station meals, you get sick from a brand-name place."

"Glad to see you find such joy in my misery."

"Aww, I'm just teasing Sammy. Try the Gatorade again. You really need to get some electrolytes back into your system." 

John leaned against the doorframe and took in the scene before him. Sam was lying on the bed with the towel wrapped around his otherwise naked body and Dean was sorting through the chest of drawers, muttering about his geek brother and his even geekier clothes. 

"What do you think Dad meant about figuring out what to do next?"

Dean threw a ratty T-shirt and a pair of jeans at Sam before opening the next drawer for socks. "Don't know. Hospital, maybe." 

The little color that was in Sam's face quickly disappeared. "Seriously? I mean last week you almost bled out on the kitchen table and we didn't go to the hospital then. Dad just stitched up and gave you some Ibuprofen." 

Dean shrugged. "Dad's weird about stuff like this. You remember how he'd freaked out when you got the chicken pox back in kindergarten or when I got the flu two years ago?

Blood and gore doesn't bother the man but anything normal does." 

"For good reason. With the supernatural, I always know what we're dealing with. But I didn't go to medical school and there's a whole mess of normal out there that kills just as viciously. Trust me, I've seen it do just that." 

Sam jumped and Dean looked up startled. "Hey, Dad. Just trying to get Sammy dressed like you told me to." 

"Uh...How long have you been standing out there?" Sam's muffled voice asked as Dean tried to stuff his head into the hole of the T-shirt that was meant for arms. 

"Not long. What happened to your hand?" John asked. He had eavesdropped on a private conversation between brothers. It would be better to save them both the embarrassment and just pretend he hadn't heard anything. 

Sam grabbed the shirt away from Dean. "Its nothing. I accidentally cut myself in Art class." He tried to put it on himself but the moment he moved, he got a weird look on his face and Dean quickly jumped out of the way as Sam threw up again, all over John's boots. 

"With what? A really sharp graphite pencil?" Dean asked, as he handed John a towel and then helped Sam into his jeans. John took the shirt from Sam, who reluctantly relinquished his grip, and eased it over his son's head and thin shoulders. 

"A metal wire. We're doing sculptures this semester. Sorry about the shoes Dad."

John wasn't paying attention to Sam's apology though. Instead, he was flashing back to thirty years ago, to another house, another room, another fifteen-year old vomiting up his insides. That incident hadn't turned out well and he wasn't planning on history repeating itself. 

"Dean, pack some clothes and get Sammy down to the car in five minutes. I'm going to call Bobby and forfeit the poltergeist in Tucson to him. We're going to the ER." 

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John glanced in rear view mirror, smiling at the image of his youngest sleeping in Dean's arms. He had expected Sam to complain the whole way but he had knocked out the moment they had turned out of the driveway. 

Despite John's cautions of obeying the speed limit, twenty minutes later, he was pulling the Chevy Impala into St. Mary's parking lot and shutting off the engine. 

Dean gently roused his brother, who didn't protest as John gathered him up and carried him through the sliding doors of the emergency department. 

When he placed Sam one the gurney, three or four doctors swarmed the small family and started asking questions while probing Sam and hooking him up to some IVs. Within minutes they had whisked him away to the critical care unit to do more tests so they could further figure out what the problem was. 

Or at least that's how things would have gone if the world were fair and karma wasn't a complete bitch. 

John snapped out of his reverie to Sam's petulant voice ranting, as it had been for the past forty minutes, about the ineptness of emergency room personnel and their inability to differentiate their front ends from their rears. Dean, of course, had his input in the form of snarky comments on how he wouldn't mind helping some of those hot nurses identify their rear ends. 

Despite John's desire of breaking the speed limit, a car wreck had caused a severe traffic jam that made the twenty minute drive into an hour and a half drive, during which Sam continued his incessant rave. 

Dean all but shoved his brother out of the car when John finally pulled the Chevy Impala into St. Mary's parking lot and shut off the engine. Apparently the kid's whining had gotten to Dean as well. John tried to help Sam but his youngest shrugged him off, determined to regain the dignity that was loss when Dean had all but carried him to the car earlier. 

Unfortunately, that dignity was lost right outside the automated double doors. John sighed as he put a hand on the nape of Sam's neck, massaging it until the bout of sickness ended. 

The emergency department was surprisingly crowded for 3 AM. The patients that weren't bleeding profusely or nursing broken bones were either staring into space, looking concussed, or starring at the strange objects they were impaled with, looking confused. And of course, there was that one baby with the ear infection wailing at the top of his lungs, adding to the bedlam. 

When John gave his insurance card to harried nurse at the front desk, she handed him a stack of papers to fill out and told him, it might be a while. They were a little shorthanded. 

John returned to his sons, who were situated in the only available seats, which was right next to the screaming infant. And as if his growing migraine needed anymore encouragement, his mature adolescent and his adult son had decided to pick up their bickering with the classic "is not...is too...is not...is too." 

It was going to be a long night. 

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Hope it held up to expectations and wasn't too confusing. Please Review. 


	4. Transport, by throe: part B

Peace, by its Battles Told

by Scientist in the stars

A/N: I'm alive and I apologize for not updating earlier but school had held me hostage and wouldn't let write one word until it was finished. Now summer has begun and my undergrad experience is finished so I have nothing but time. I had to continue John's POV because there were still too many questions left unanswered. So enjoy and be sympathetic but honest in your reviews.

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John sipped his lukewarm coffee, grimacing as the bitter sludge slid down his tongue and burned his esophagus as it settled unpleasantly in his stomach.

Shafts of sunlight spilled through the narrow window, illuminating the tired faces of families still waiting for news about their loved ones, and the dimmed sounds of the outside traffic indicated the early morning hour.

After several more sips, he shook his head and sadly threw the lost-cause cup of coffee into the metal trash dispenser. Arching his back and reaching for the cracked plaster ceiling, he stretched out his aching muscles, wincing slightly as his joints cracked with both exhaustion from the previous night's events and the anticipation of an even longer day.

John glanced around, noting all the possible exits (old habits die hard), before slinking down on to the hard-backed plastic chair. He let out a breath and for a moment dropped his composure.

If there was one thing he hated as much as that demon who stole his Mary away from him, it was hospitals. He hated the antiseptic smell that hung around the corridors and the unnatural white of the walls. He hated the linoleum floors and the harried residents who seemed to constantly be running on too much caffeine and too little sleep.

Mostly, he hated the childhood memories it unearthed and the fact that usually it indicated that one or both of his boys were hurt more than he could he help them. And that scared him more than anything, even Mary's untimely end had.

After waiting next to the screaming infant, who had a strong set of lungs considering the way it was still carrying on, for over two hours the ER doctor finally came out and took Sam behind the double doors to be examined.

Dean was struck with temporary amnesia and had forgotten Nurse I've-got-a-stick-shoved-up-my-ass's rule about one family member per patient and had followed. Fortunately the doctor wasn't as big a dickwad and had realized it would much easier to examine Sam in Dean's presence than to try and pry Dean away.

After the preliminary poking and prodding, he ordered a blood test and sent Sam down to the pediatric ward to wait because the ER was starting to fill past the legal capacity and until the results came back the doctor wouldn't be able to rule out some of the possibilities, which at this point ranged from upset stomach to a contagious infection.

The walls were painted with sunshine and the color scheme was bright and cheery. Even the designated hospital garb screamed 'I'm five' with its racecars, Disney princesses, and Mickey mouse patterns.

To make matters worse, the ward was getting ready for an event that involved an indoor circus which meant popcorn, cotton candy, and clowns.

The minute Sam stepped foot onto the floor, he demanded a change in room assignments. Even having an old geezer who keeps calling him 'sonny' and hacking up a lung due to fifty years of smoking for a roommate would be better than this nightmare. Unfortunately the victims of the car wreck that was causing the traffic jam several hours earlier were now pouring in and there was no room on the general admissions floor.

So now, Sam was surlier than ever, Dean was having the time of his life poking fun at Sam, and John needed a caffeine IV drip to deal with the both of them as well as the situation. He hated not being in control.

The lab tech had taken about forty minutes to arrive, the time in which Sam had grudgingly changed into a pale blue hospital gown—one that thankfully wasn't backless or printed with inane kindergarten characters...Dean didn't need anymore ammunition—and had almost fallen asleep.

The squeaky wheels of the metal cart and the clang of test tubes jarred him from the slumber, a confused and slightly frightened look evident in his young features. The phlebotomist, who occupied three times the space a normal sized man would, seemed unconcerned about this fact as he grabbed at Sam's arm, used an alcohol prep pad and swiped the area of the inner arm, right above the elbow.

"De-ean?" Sam asked, groggily. For the second time that night, John couldn't stop the pang of regret and pain that shot through his heart. Granted this was exactly what he wanted—for his boys to be dependent on only each other. However, the loss of a parental role in his children's life was difficult to accept.

"It's okay Sammy. Jerk-ula is just here to draw some blood so they can figure out what makes Geek-boy tick." The words were light but the glare that Dean was sending the phlebotomist would have stopped serpents in their den.

Ignoring Dean, he went on to tie the latex band that serve as the tourniquet and none too gently tapped Sam's arm to pulsate the vein.

Sam squirmed slightly as the needle slid through the skin but stilled as Dean laid a hand on his thin shoulder. John sighed. So much for avoiding needles.

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The footfalls of imminent doom broke through his thoughts as the instincts that served him so well in his war against the supernatural indicated the arrival of another presence. John looked up to see Sam's doctor approaching.

Quickly standing and allowing his mask slip back into place, he grasp the doctors outstretched hand.

"Mr. Lawrence, I would like introduce myself properly. I'm Dr. Jimmy Page and I apologize for being short to you in ER but it's been a rather hectic night."

John nodded. "I understand. It's been chaotic for us as well. So any relation to the great?"

The doctor grinned. "Your older son asked me the same question. Sorry, but I'm Irish not English and my three-year old can play the guitar better than me."

"Too bad. Those sugar coated pop princesses and angsty emo-wannabe rock stars just don't do music justice anymore."

"I agree. Zeppelin was the last breed of a dying generation. Lucky for you though, my knowledge of medicine is far more well tuned than my ability to play in E major."

"Is Sammy going to okay?" As the frantic father voiced the question that had been plaguing him for the last 12 hours, the air felt a little heavier and the oxygen content in the room seemed to go down.

The doctor fiddled slightly with his golden rimmed glasses before answering. "The good news is that the blood tests haven't given any signs of an infection. His IgE levels are slightly elevated indicated that he may have been fighting off an allergy of a sort. However, there are a multitude of other reasons so I would like to run a couple more tests before making a diagnosis."

John sighed. Doctors might differ in bedside manners but all seemed to speak the same incoherent language. "Meaning?"

"Oh, sorry. I tend to ramble. Let me start at the beginning. I checked the blood of clostridium tetani, the bacteria that leads to the tetanus infection, and didn't find any traces of it. I will perform the spatula test but since there were no signs of the bacterium in the blood or any other motor symptoms I don't believe its tetanus."

Relief washed over John. When he was still in the Corp, he had seen a fellow bunk member succumb to the dreadful disease. It had scared the shit out of him and the fact that his son might have contracted it from something as normal as an Art class had been plaguing him with worry.

Unfortunately that also meant they were back to square 1. "What about the bruising and headaches? Do you think they're connected?"

The doctor shrugged. "Possibly. Vomiting is a very vague symptom and can be caused by almost any disease. Your other son, Dean, mentioned something about Sam tripping and hitting his head?"

John nodded, trying to keep his expression neutral. If he wasn't carefully the good intention doctor might just see it as a sign of abuse and right now, he didn't have the resources or the patient to bail Dean out of jail after he attacks the social worker.

"Well, I checked signs for a concussion but apart from the vomiting he seems to be displaying no other symptoms. I doubt anymore are going to manifest but it would be best to get a CT scan. Also I think he should get a spinal tap done to rule out meningitis.

"As for the bruising, its light and therefore might not be anything. Kids fall down all the time and teenagers are always getting themselves into some kind of mess. I'll give him a painkiller from the NSAIDs family for it."

From John's knowledge of first aid and emergency medicine he knew that was basically an aspirin. At this point, John realized that he may have overreacted a little bit.

However, Lady Luck had never been a big fan of the Winchester family and John would rather be labeled an overprotective parent than one mourning the loss of a son.

As if understanding John's line of thinking, Dr. Page said, " Don't worry Mr. Lawrence. Now this might be something minor as a case of food poisoning or the flu but I've been in this business long enough to not take anything for granted. I will treat this with the utmost priority and with every degree of caution until I find out for sure."

oooOoooOoooOoooOoooOoooOooo

Sam's pallor was pasty, the color of washed moonlight, and his chestnut bangs were matted against his forehead, the fringed edges touching the fevered skin above his closed eyelids. He was sleeping on his side, since sleeping on his back led to nightmares, his face smashed into the pillow and long limbs hanging off the bed. A line of drool was slowly traveling from his slightly opened mouth to the collar of Dean's tattered AC/DC T-shirt.

John shook his head in amusement as he saw his eldest son lying on top of the rough cotton covers, snoring softly. Earlier, Dean had stretched out next to Sam, claiming he had to keep the kid safe from the killer clowns and the voodoo chair from Hell was hurting his back.

Sam shifted, snuggling closer to the warm body next to him, his head nestled into the crook between his brother's neck and shoulder. No matter how old or tall he got, Sam seemed to always fit perfectly into his brothers arm—like it was the only place he ever really belonged.

Allowing that familiar feeling to steadily warm his icy soul, he sighed as the memory's gate swung open as the winds of time almost blew the doors off their golden hinges.

"_Dude, I don't understand why you have to act that way. She's just a girl," the twelve year old commented, wrinkling his nose in disgust. _

"_Runt, firstly she is not just a girl. She is Casey Hartwick, the most beautiful and graceful person to ever walk this planet—"_

"_You mean, other than Mom." He really didn't remember much about her, he had been three when she died. But the from the stories he heard about her, she was perfection. _

"_Duh. Anyways, Casey is smart, she is cool, and she—"_

"_Has no idea you exist," John Winchester grinned and ducked as his sixteen-year old brother attempted to grab him into a headlock. _

"_So Runt. What about you? How are things going with that cutie who stopped by that one time to drop off your homework?" _

_John shrugged. "Mary? She's just a friend. Besides I think relationships are a waste of time. Who needs that nonsense anyways? I've got everything I want in this room." _

_Matthew sighed. "Johnny. I know you don't believe the doctors but—"_

_John scowled. "Mattie, those morons wouldn't know a sickness if it smacked them in the face. They're just a bunch of know-it-all rich boys who like to play God but refuse to admit it when they made a mistake. And trust me, this is one big mistake." _

"_Kiddo—" he paused mid-sentence, his pasty skin turning a slightly garnish green. His body heaved and before John could reach him, Matt had turned over and vomited all over the linoleum tiles of the hospital floor. _

"_Shit," John cursed as he grabbed the metal trash can and held it under his brother as he spewed chunks of bile and chime. _

"_Language," Matt coughed, gripping John's arm, which was wrapped around his shoulder, carefully keeping him from falling, face first, into the remains of his dinner. _

_After a few minutes, the sickness subsided. Matt quickly dried away the stress induced tears and John looked away as his brother attempted to regain his composure. Rule #31 in the little brother's handbook: always allow the big brother to feel as if he's in charge, especially when he isn't. _

_Then familiar arms, which resonated of safety, comfort, and love, pulled him into the embrace that painted his childhood—the one which every tear, every hurt, every heartbreak was accompanied by. _

_Forgetting that he was almost a teenager, forgetting that he was in the hospital—a vicious serpent's nest of sickness and suffering—forgetting that his brother was practically lying on his death bed, John allowed himself to fall asleep, nestled next to the person who was his guardian, his family, his world. _

_As the steady stead of dusk cantered across the slate gray sky, the quiet hospital room with its beeping machines and nausea inducing scent dimmed into dandelion summers and seascape dreams. _

to be continued...

* * *

I was thinking about leaving a cliffy but after the giant one the season finale left I couldn't find it in my heart to be as cruel. After all, I'm not a complete sadist. Please review because as of lately I've been facing some harsh realities and I could use some good news (hopefully it is good)


	5. Peace, by its battles told

Peace, by its Battles Told

By Scientist in the stars

AN: Hope this suffices. I'm not sure if I did Dean's POV perfectly but I tried. In my opinion, Dean may talk tough but he is a walking chick-flick moment at heart. I tried to keep focus on the illness but I've learned that I really don't like writing all that medical drama. Go figure.

* * *

The rain was warm, despite its artic journey through the changing atmosphere, and it fell in a soft melody that was followed by a symphony of wind violins and lilac lullabies. Moving in unison with the alcoves of silence that hung in the forest, like the daisy yellow curtains that used to decorate the window in Sammy's Kansas nursery, Dean moved swiftly.

He was a hunter, trained by his father and hardened by circumstance. For 15 years he had been responsible for his own safety and more importantly, for that of his baby brother.

Dean was a guardian, a protector—he didn't know any other life. Without his charge, he was useless, but even with it, he often felt worthless. He had learned early on, however, that his feelings weren't relevant in this lifestyle. As his father often told him, sometimes the dignity of the few must be sacrificed to save the lives of the many.

He felt the amber gaze and heard the soft growl; he knew he was being followed but when he turned, his human eyes could only see shadows.

"Come on out and fight. Only cowards hide," Dean shouted into the vast nothingness, trying to entice the enemy.

At first, the only response was unsettling stillness as the chilly night air roved over his skin and raised goose bumps across the scarred flesh. Then, the sharp crackle of broken twigs followed by the grazing of claws against dirt resonated through the forest. The thunderclouds shifted and a sliver of moonlight fell upon a magnificent canvas of rusted golden fur with obsidian stripes. The flank resonated beauty and grace and the coiled stance of the creature's hind limbs spoke of power and strength.

As Dean let out a misty breath, he recited, "TIGER, tiger, burning bright…"

The gated sanctuary seemed to quiver and the hallow grounds shifted as the tiger let out a battle cry that echoed tradition and magic wroth from a hundred years, past and future.

"….In the forests of the night…"

The wind howled and danced alongside its prince as the creature rushed through the fortress of towering trees. Dean knew that running was useless. He was fast but a tiger was built for speed. He doubts he'd be able to outrun it even in his beloved Impala. So instead, he held his silver knife, a thirteenth birthday present from his father, in his right hand and crouched slightly, ready to slice the tiger when it struck.

"…What immortal hand or eye…"

The tiger paused at the edge of the forest and Dean realized for a moment a kindred spirit. The tiger was a hunter by nature, forced into this lifestyle by his birthright. The creature seemed to embodied freedom and reckless abandon but Dean understood the guile nature and underlying fear. It was trapped in a faulted dream, damaged perfection chasing an enemy that could only be fought from within.

"…Could frame thy fearful symmetry…"

Time shifted, the silence shattered, and the ferocious beast took over as the tiger leaped into air. Dean tried to move but it was like his feet had suddenly grown roots and he unable to move away from danger's path. How the hell was he supposed to save Sammy if he couldn't help himself?

The tiger landed and Dean jerked as his mind collided into his sleeping body and reality slowly set in, the dream fading away. His system rebooted and his sense gradually began to take in the surroundings as his hunter's instincts shifted into overdrive.

Judging from the high-pitched whistling sound and the unmanageable mop of brown hair, he figured that the warm weight next to him was Sammy. Geez, that kid even snored like a girl.

He tried to gouge the soreness from his own injuries, which had been left unattended to in the wake of Sam's but was met only with numbness. Sighing, he instead tried to figure out the time and environment. His mind, however refused to cooperate, and it was similar to trying to run in molasses.

Shit. Granted he usually needed a cup of coffee, black with one packet of Splenda—a real man's liquor—to function before a decent hour (which was usually around 4 pm on non-hangover days) but he was rarely ever this disoriented. It was dangerous to let down your guard and Dean had been trained to always be ready to fight, no matter the hour. It was reason that Sam sometimes ended with a knife to his throat or at the wrong end of right hook whenever he tried to wake Dean from a nightmare.

As he started to move away from Sam, he felt something warm and wet sliding down his neck. Glancing down at his wrinkled T-shirt he noticed the darkened water stain and sighed. Once this nightmare ended, he was definitely shaving off half of Sam's eyebrow.

Shifting out of his little brother's hold, Sam had always liked to cuddle whenever he was scared or sick, he climbed off the bed and stretched his protesting muscles. Working out the kinks in his neck, his moss green eyes quickly combed the room.

There wasn't much to observe as the room was fairly small and everything was kid-sized. It was a surprise his Sasquatch brother could manage to fit into the bed. But Dean supposed that after years of sleeping in the backseat of the Impala, motel room beds of variable conditions, and the occasional cold tiled floor of the bathroom, the miniature hospital bed shouldn't be that much of a challenge.

Apart from his sleeping brother, there were some uncomfortable-looking machines, a television set that had only had three functioning channels: PBS, Lifetime, and the Discovery channel, and the stupid IV stand that was keeping his brother hydrated. There was also a fairly imposing mountain next to the bed.

Dean rubbed his eyes, wiping away the sleep crust. His vision cleared and he recognized the mountain to be his father slumped over and snoozing lightly in Hell's throne, the chair he had abandoned hours earlier.

The man looked as if he had aged over night. His skin had a bluish-gray tone to it and every line, every wrinkles was visible on his face, which was drawn even in sleep. The fact that the man hadn't noticed Dean's abrupt awakening was enough to mark how badly the previous night had gone. Even his father was wrecked and tired beyond belief.

Dean jerked his attention to the door as he heard light footsteps approaching from the hall but dropped his protective stance as it realized it was only a nurse during her routine rounds.

The nurse, a woman in her late forties with light blonde hair and warm brown eyes, walked into the room and paused at seeing Dean.

"Good morning. I hope you slept well."

Her smile reminded Dean of baking chocolate chip cookies on lazy Saturday afternoons.

His mother had never been a chef and she always managed to burn them but Dean still loved them. 19 years and he had yet to find anything that tasted better.

"I did. Thanks." Any witty comment or sly remark seemed to escape his head. The fog his mind was submerged in was making it difficult to think and for some reason, he couldn't get the image of his mother out of his head.

"You're lucky that Nurse Hannigan wasn't on floor duty last night. Otherwise I'm not sure you would have slept so comfortably. We have rules against people other than the patients being on the hospital bed."

"I'm sorry about that but Sammy can't fall asleep in hospitals. I figured it would be the only way he would actually rest and I could still—"

"Keep an eye on him? Don't worry. I've been working here for 20 years and you aren't the first older sibling I've encountered. Your secret's safe with me."

"Good because, Hannibal Lector—I mean, Nurse _Hannigan_ was manning the ER last night and she specifically told me my brazen attitude would not be tolerated. She threatened to kick me out of the hospital if I put another toe out of line."

"She's the head RN for the trauma and ER floors. It's a very difficult job and it requires a difficult woman. She has to be tough."

"I bet you're required to say that. A woman like that needs all the good PR she can get."

"Off the record though, I do believe that sometimes, she could use a Midol."

Dean grinned. "Well, I'm glad _you're_ the one who's looking out for my brother and not her. Sammy's a little sensitive."

"I'm glad to do it. He seems like a sweet boy. Surprisingly, it was hard to get someone to volunteer to take on his case. We drew straws and well, as you can figure, I ended up with the shortest one."

"Yeah, I know my dad can seem intimidating but he's really looking out for Sam's best interest. He's just needs to work on his people skills. And Sam's nothing like him."

She laughed; it was a soft sound that reminded him of wind chimes. "No, you misunderstood me. The nurses on the floor were fighting _for_ him. Your brother's quite a charmer, even when he is unconscious."

"Yeah, well older woman always had a thing for Sammy. I guess it's the whole motherless, kicked puppy look he has about him. They eat it up like senior citizens eat pudding."

She smiled briefly and then her expression turned serious as she quickly examined Sam's vitals, Dean watching over her shoulder. Dean let out a breath as his brother continued to sleep on, oblivious to the world. The longer he stayed that way, the better.

"Sam's doing just fine. Now I'm going to change the IV and leave some of the medication Dr. Page prescribed for those bruises of his. The doctor should be here in a little while and he'll be able to explain the next step."

Dean nodded and then noticed that the nurse was still looking at him with sympathetic eyes.

"Honey, maybe you should get some breakfast or coffee at least."

"I'm good." In truth, his stomach was growling but he couldn't leave his family right now. He had already fallen asleep on his watch; in slumber they may be safe from the painful realities of the coming day but his family was also vulnerable right now. He wouldn't let evil take advantage of that fact again. He had already lost too much.

"Okay. I'll be down at the nurse's station. If you need anything just press the call button. I'm on duty until 5, so don't hesitate to ask me for help."

With that she left the room and Dean shook his head, trying to dislodge the image that still clinging to his imagination and causing heart to skip beats; it was akin to that stomach dropping feeling of thinking there is an extra step at the bottom of the stairs. It was stupid when he thought about it. He had known his mother for only four years and he barely had any real memories of her. Truthfully, he never missed her but rather the person she could have been…the person she was supposed to be. His grief wasn't just for his dead mother but also for the apple pie life he always made fun of Sam for wanted.

Dean looked back at his father again. Judging from the flickering movement under his eyelids, Dean figured he was dreaming. And judging from the slightly distressed look, Dean figured it wasn't necessarily a good one.

Sighing, he carefully rested a hand on his father's shoulder (the man may be knocked out but he was still a trained killer…the situation was equivalent to poking a hibernating bear) and muttered, "It'll be okay, Dad. Everything will be okay."

ooOOooOOooOOoo

"Stop being a prick Dean and just leave me alone."

There were many sides to the enigma that Sammy and as the dutiful older brother, Dean knew them all.

He had encountered serious Sam during the hunt, studious Sam at exam time, mother hen Sam whenever he was sick or hurt, nettling Sam during prank wars and early Saturday mornings, angry Sam, who lately seemed to be making an appearance more often, teenager Sam, an unfortunate occurrence since the kid turned thirteen, goofy Sam, a rare diamond in the ruff these days, and little brother Sam, who worshipped the ground he walked on and could have gotten away with murder with just one flash of those puppy dog eyes.

The one he disliked the most however was the one he was looking at right now: angsty, brooding, emo-Sam.

"Geez, who pissed in your orange juice this morning? I was just trying to get you to smile."

Dean didn't honestly blame him for being fed-up but was getting tired of being everyone's outlet. As of late, both Sam and his dad seemed to love taking their frustrations and anger out on Dean. A small part of him was starting to resent them for it but a larger part realized it was better to be wanted and abused rather than to be ignored and treated fairly.

"Sorry, Dean. I really hate this place."

Sam looked contrite enough and Dean understood all the things that he left unsaid. Specifically, the fact that Sam was fifteen and scared.

"Don't worry kiddo. I'm not exactly a number one fan of here either. But until they figure out what's wrong with you, we're not leaving."

"But I feel fine," Sam whined in that petulant tone which told Dean that crabby Sammy would soon be replaced by baby Sammy.

"I don't care how you feel _right now_. Yesterday you did a face plant in the shower and you generated enough puke to serve as cafeteria food at Silver Hills High for at least three months. Until the doctor tells me what caused that, you're not going home."

"It was probably because of the concussion."

"Weren't you swearing left and right that you didn't have one? Besides, according to that CT scan your brain is perfectly normal. It's enormous and filled with weird, geeky information that puts every hot girl who comes within 20 ft of you into a boredom-induced coma but healthy. Not a bruised contusion in sight."

"And when did you get your MD? Between the consumption of enough burgers and fries so that your body fat could feed a small country for at least 3 months and being a horny, one-tracked mind Neanderthal that goes after anything that remotely resembles a female?"

"I don't need a degree to tell me how to look after your clumsy ass. We are staying and that's final."

Sam glowered and folded his arms across his chest but didn't retort. Apparently the fire in his brother had died down slightly and Dean figured it was most likely due to the countless tests they had subjected him to rather than Dean's witty comebacks. After all, under normal circumstances his brother could hold his own against the great John Winchester, the champion of arguers.

"Sammy, I know this situation sucks and I'd trade places if I could but dude, we just gotta get through it. So can you leave the petty teenage act behind and be—"

"A good little soldier? Sure, Dean. I mean, _sir_."

Dean let out a frustrated growl but didn't respond. Instead he tried to put himself in his brother's giant shoes. It was one thing to be bleeding like a stuck pig and having stitches with vodka being substituted for the anesthesia and ibuprofen serving as the painkiller but another matter entirely to be undergoing a battery of strange and painful tests without knowing the consequences.

Dean had been facing the supernatural since the tender age of 6, he had encountered the worst of evils—both human and monster—and had stared death in the face on more than one occasion. Yet the unknown still terrified him. He doubts that his brother, whom Dean had been careful to protect and who had part of his innocence still intact, would deal with it any better.

Looking back on the day, he could understand Sam's screw-the-world-and-everyone-in-it attitude.

The physical exam had been uncomfortable. Dean had gone outside to give his brother some privacy but he could tell by the shades of red his brother's face was turning that it was bound to be awkward, whether Dean was there to witness it or not.

The urine test had been pretty bad. Not painful but just embarrassing. It was common knowledge that Sam had a nervous sphincter and a shy bladder. Before he had been potty trained, Sam used to piss all over the place. Now the kid couldn't pee in public, let alone under any amount of pressure. Dean still remembered the time when Sam had made a bet with another kid that he could chug a liter of soda and then had almost wet his pants by the time he came back to the shabby motel they were staying in because he wasn't able to go the bathroom in school.

The spinal tap test was the worst. Sam was a Winchester and therefore his ability to tolerate pain was very developed. Or so it would have seemed.

The funny thing about Sam was that it was the type of pain, rather than the amount, which would decide whether he would scream or not. Monsters with iron claws that rip the flesh off of his bones, screaming banshees that made his ears bleed, and angry spirits who have a fetish for tossing him into hard surfaces—he could handle. Having a needle that is 6 inches long and at least 2 inches thick, shoved through skin and muscle straight into his spine—he could not handle.

Dean had gripped Sam's hand throughout the whole procedure, their father having conveniently slipped out the door moment before, and cursed vehemently when his little brother cried out. It took all of his self-control and the fact that Sam would probably loose the little bit of comfort that was grounding him if he let go was all that kept Dean from decking the technician right then and there.

Their father had disappeared for the rest of day under the ruse of figuring out how to pay the hospitals bill, leaving Dean to deal with Sam. True the man probably would have been a nuisance and Sam would have wasted energy keeping up a front but damn it, John was supposed to be the parent.

Overall, the day had sucked. And now, Sam was seizing.

Wait, Sam was seizing. HOLY SHIT.

"Sammy," Dean said as he used one hand to push the call button and another to restrain his brother. Sam's long limbs were flailing and his expressive brown eyes continued to roll as his body convulsed.

Dean heard the footfalls approaching but he kept his eyes focused on his brother. Sam's lips were taking on a bluish tinge and foam was sliding out of the corner of his mouth. His own world started to whirl as he realized Sam's chest wasn't moving up and down in a regular rhythm.

This had happened once before. Back when Sam was a baby, he had stopped breathing. Their father had managed to do some rescue CPR and Sam had survived the brush with death without physical consequences.

The emotional havoc it wreaked on Dean was a whole other story. Dean had been terrified from that point onward to leave Sam alone, especially in sleep. Over the years, he had gradually learned to let go. After all, it's extremely awkward and weird to be sleeping in the same bed as your brother at the age of 19. So, Dean let his brother have his independence and tried not to cling, but he did regress in moments of crisis; they both did.

Sam stilled under his touch and his eyes slammed shut. The seizure had ended but Sam wasn't waking up. He wasn't moving at all.

Suddenly all Dean could see was the snapshots of his brother's brief life. They blurred his vision and blocked all rational thoughts out of his mind. Sam as a drooling baby laughing at his brother's antics, Sam falling into Dean's arms after he took his first steps, Sam attempting to read to Dean when he was sick with the flu and then giving up and making up his own story instead, Sam in the school play (thanks to Dean he was the coolest looking George Washington in the history of the school), Sam shooting him a lopsided grin after a payback prank where he convinced every girl in town that Dean was gay.

"Dean, sweetie. You need to move out the way. We're here to help Sam." The voice of nurse who reminded him of his mom was distant and echoing; he felt he was in the middle of a ravine, unable to climb out.

He felt hands, soft and gentle, prying Sam from his own and pushing him off to the side. His view was suddenly blocked by blurs of white, as doctors and nurses, crowded around his brother.

"He's turning—he's turning blue. Please, he's not breathing. We were just talking and then—he just started shaking. Please, he's not—he's…"

Suddenly, Dean felt as if all the oxygen was sucked out of the room. His lungs cried for reprieve and his head spun as black and purple dots swarmed across his dimming vision.

"Christ," he heard a doctor hiss. "The kid's not breathing. Get the damn crash cart."

Dean's heart was beating painfully fast. It was trying to circulate whatever oxygen that was left in his body but it wouldn't be enough. The scene faded in and out of focus, like an image on one of those old television sets with the antenna and bad reception, before being replaced by complete darkness. His mind and body disconnected as his body felt a jolt rip through it.

Fuckin' crude.

He needed Sam to be okay. It was no secret that he lived for his brother. Either both of them survived or neither.

* * *

Does that count as a cliffe? I will try to update soon but inspiration seems to strike at the most random moments. Please, please review. I'm not one to beg but...pleasse?


	6. Love, by memorial mould

Peace, by its Battles Told

By Scientist in the stars

AN: I've been reading fan fictions for a while and I never before have understood what the author meant about having a difficult time with a chapter…until now. This chapter was like a trip through Hell (poor Dean). And what came out wasn't what I had originally planned but hopefully it works. Please let it have worked, I'm too tired to rewrite it.

* * *

The truth, like surgery, may hurt but it cures -- Han Suyin

Sam was trapped in the eye of a tornado. The wind whirled around him; chaos swirled and destruction unraveled the steady peace that was attempting to take hold. As a muffled silence—heavy with desolation and regret—cast its shadow over the raging storm, he heard Dean's voice past through the eerie stillness:

_Toto, I've got a feeling that we're not in Kansas anymore. _

He felt like he was stuck in a moment, in a nightmare that wouldn't end. Darkness swamped his vision as murky shapes disappeared over an ebony precipice into icy waters. He couldn't breathe, his lungs screaming for sweet oxygen and his body succumbed to tremors as it slowly starved from lack of air. His heart was breaking, not from an invisible pain that claimed the wreckages of past loves and past lives but a physical ache that was ripping the muscle to shred.

His mind was awake but his body was paralyzed. Tendrils of fear snared him as he fought logic and continued his useless attempts at regaining control. Stubbornness was a Winchester trait, along with a duty, obsession, and faulted priorities.

_So are brains, a strong sense of family, and classic good looks. Well, actually the last one was more from Mom's side. That's the reason you never inherited it. You take after dad. _

Sam sighed, as his thoughts turned to his brother. Tears pricked at the corner of his useless eyes but they only fell in the corridors of his mind. Seeking refuge away from the mind-numbing pain, he retreated further in himself. He knew his dad would call it selfish and think of it as a coward's solace but he couldn't handle it anymore.

Suddenly, the darkness dissolved into a majestic hallway of stars, marked by many doors and paths, most that began in blood and ended in fire. Navigating through the hoary smoke and ash that was pouring from some of the opened door, he searched for a safe haven. Apparently though, his mind was suffering along with his body. As thunder roared above and lightning ripped across the desolate wasteland, a leaden landscape that once used to be a sophisticated oasis in the middle of Paradise, a magnificent library of an innocent soul, Sam ran.

Sam ran away from taunting first-graders, fourth grade bullies, his Dad's vehement comments, and his own teenage insecurities. He ran from his fears of failure, his depression, and his feelings of worthlessness. He ran until the dizziness returned, until his non-existent breath caught in his throat and clawed away at his insides, until his body slammed into an oak door and he fell backwards, unable to stand upright.

The door wasn't smeared with blood or scorched by fire; it wasn't submerged in gloom and touched by shade. Instead it was bathed in a comforting glow, marked with butterfly kisses and childhood lullabies.

Not fooled by the illusion but having no other choice, considering if he stayed a moment longer in the storm, he was sure it would rip him to pieces, he yanked open the door and plummeted headfirst into the ethereal light.

ooOOooOOooOOoo

Sam landed on the hard floor, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the inky blackness that surrounded him. He took a moment to catalog his injuries but then realized that not only didn't he hurt but he was pleasantly numb. The pain from before had completely disappeared, almost as if had simply been a figment of his imagination.

A steady stream of moonlight flittered through the dirty window and a sudden whimper caused him to shift his gaze to his left. Huddle in the corner, near the rusted metal hinges of a rotting wooden door, was a seven-year old boy. His pale face was streaked in dirt and wet smudges; he was small for his age and his whole body looked fragile, like he'd shatter no matter how tender the touch. It was his eyes that spoke the most; they were stained glass windows that looked into the empty cathedral of a tortured soul—one which had witnessed a great tragedy.

Sam climbed to his feet and cautiously approached the trembling figure. The boy seemed to shirk even further into the corner and into himself.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I just was wondering if you could tell me where I—" His words died down as the sounds outside of the small room reverberated through it.

"_You're a worthless piece of shit. The sooner you learn that you aren't going to amount to anything, the easier this life will become on you."_

The words were punctuated by loud bangs: the thud of a fist as it slammed into flesh, the sound of a body hitting the floor, the shattering of glass, the cracking of bone.

"_Damn kids. Charlene should have aborted you both." _The words came out breathy, as if the speaker was winded, and slurred, as if speaker was drunk.

"_Especially that snot-nosed brother of yours. He killed my Char. Her death is his fucking fault. I don't know why I let that murderer live. Where is he? Hiding upstairs?" _

An even more terrifying sound, the echo of heavy boots on the creaky stairs, followed the angry statement.

The little kid hiccupped, looking terrified, and Sam sighed.

"It's okay, kiddo. The monster won't hurt you. I'm here to keep you safe." It was the mantra his brother would chant whenever Sam awoke him in the dead of the night, afraid of the demons under his bed. It made him feel protected and less alone; so he repeated it now in hopes of providing some comfort.

"_No, you bastard. Leave him alone. He didn't do anything and if you touch him, I will end you," _another voice, pained but steady, entered the chaos.

There was a pause that stretched on for eternity and then a satisfied chuckle that raised goose-bumps on Sam's arms was heard. _"Huh. Finally grew some backbone. You might not be a lost cause after all. In fact, once you learn to control that mouth of yours, you might just turn out like your old man."_

This time the silence was shattered by a horrible crunching sound and door shook with force as someone was thrown against it.

A gravely voiced issued a final threat. _"Backbone or not, boy, if you ever talk to me in that tone again I will make understand what it means to respect your father. Trust me, there are far worst thing I can do than this."_

The little boy pressed his face against the door, listening to the fading footsteps. There was a sequenced knock—three steady raps and a pause, followed by a concession of four more taps—and the boy wiped the stray tears off his face before quickly unlocking the door and yanking it open.

Another figure, taller but just as scrawny, crawled in and the collapsed into the younger boy's waiting arms. The little boy's front crumbled, and waterworks returned as the salty tears he had just wiped away cascaded onto the older kid's ripped and bloodied tee. His body wracked with muffled sobs as his pain settled deep in small heart, fracturing it with each word that was said against him.

The other boy rocked his baby brother back and front, cradling him with practiced ease. Sam stepped aside, feeling uncomfortable, as if he was trespassing on a very private moment.

"Sshh, buddy. I'm okay and we'll get through this. Just like always. Don't worry, nothing's broken. I'm just a little banged up."

The boy shook his head and burrowed further into the older boy, who was still attempting to comfort him.

"No. He's right. I-I killed mom. I'm reason that Dad's so angry and you're sad. But I didn't mean to. I swear I didn't. Please, don't hate me. I'm sorry."

Sam saw the rage and disappointment that colored the older brother's face. He looked a little bit like Dean did whenever Sam would come home bruised and beaten after some bully had picked a fight with him. Sam was perfectly capable of defending himself but he was also a bit of a pacifist. Besides 6 against 1 isn't the greatest of odds.

"It wasn't your fault. None of it. Forget what he says. I don't blame you and I never will."

ooOOooOOooOOoo

The scene shifted and the writhing darkness was replaced by dancing beams of golden sunlight. The musty smell of dust and mothballs steadily changed into the strong scent of antiseptics mingling with vomit. Venetian blinds were drawn across a wide window but the warm air indicated the afternoon hour and so light still managed to steadily stream through it. Two beds were situated in the middle of room, and apart from nightstand between the beds, a solitary chair was the only other piece of furniture.

Years of experience, however had familiarized Sam with the otherwise foreign hospital environment. Sam sighed. He couldn't wait for Dean to wake him up from this nightmare. He was even willing to start the biggest chick flick moment in history if it meant getting away from this phantasm.

There was a lot about the world that he didn't understand, like why his Mom had to die and why it was his family's responsibility to save the world from the supernatural, but this scared him, even more so than the unknown disease he was currently dying from, because he couldn't even rationalize it. Damn it, where was Dean?

His wishful thinking was interrupted by laughter. Scrambling off the linoleum floor he hid near the unoccupied bed, though he was pretty sure it was useless since he was sure that no one could see him, and waited. Voices floated and his stomach clenched as he realized they were the same ones that he had heard before.

"Dude I can't believe you pulled that prank. It was so uncalled for. I really believed I had leprosy. I was three minutes away from soaking my extremities in lizard urine."

The voice sounded petulant and a little bit more mature but Sam recognized the slight lilt and the careful speech. Glancing up, he realized that the crying seven-year old had steadily matured over the course of three years. He was still scrawny and small but he looked healthier and his eyes were brighter; when he smiled his whole face lit up.

"Well, you're the one who started it. I even got called in by the freakin' counselor because they wanted to know if there was I something I wanted to discuss. They thought I was having gender issues. Bullying and suicidal tendencies doesn't even register on these people's radar but a pink T-shirt sends up red flags. Go figure."

The boy turned solemn. "I'm sorry, Mattie. I didn't mean for you to get in trouble."

The grin slid off the other boy's face as he realized what he had just said. "Don't worry about it kiddo. Those pencil pushers wouldn't know abuse if it smacked them in the face. The jeering I got from Casey however is another story. That is the reason why I painted your hands and feet green."

"So, did the doctors say when you could come back home?"

"Umm, not for a while. They still need to give me more medicine and stuff. Are you avoiding Dad like I told you to?"

The 10-year old nodded. "I either go over to Cameron's house or hang out at the library. Otherwise I lock myself in the room. He usually doesn't get home until late and then he just passes out on the couch."

"Okay. Well, Nurse Kelly is on duty and so she'll definitely let you stay pass visiting hours, maybe even the night. The dinner tray will get here around 5. Until then, how about we call a truce and watch some TV?"

"Deal." The boys spit into their hands and shook on it, before the younger one swiped the remote and laughed as his brother attempted to get it back.

Sam grinned. He and Dean used the same handshake to seal deals and call truces in their own prank wars. He couldn't remember when they started using it but Dean had mentioned something about how Dad had taught it to him in the pre-fire era.

His smile faded though as Sam realized that he still had no idea how what he had seen was relevant to his predicament. He remembered having trouble breathing, his heart stopping, and Dean panicking and hitting the floor. After that everything went dark and he woke up inside of his head.

All he could figure was that he was probably an astral projection of some sort, because he was pretty sure he wasn't dead. Yet.

Sam was smart. He was good at research, he knew a lot of things other people didn't, and he had enough sense to survive in the world. Up until now his general knowledge of random facts had only served a useful purpose in annoying Dean.

But piecing together the fragmented emotions he had been feeling, the disarray state of his mind, and the weird hallucination he was currently experiencing, he was able to utilize his useless library of information to form a substantial theory of what the fuck was going on.

In between looking up the thirty different ways to kill a Wendigo, fire being the primary method, and the most common exorcism practices in Western Europe, he had done extensive research on Celtic traditions, especially on the druids. They were a priestly and highly learned class in the ancient societies; the druids practiced both science and sorcery. Surprisingly, most of modern medicine and present-day technology is based on druid practices.

What piqued Sam's interest the most were their principles on time and energy. Apparently, druids studied for many years, preparing for a journey deep into their own unconscious. Here they would learn to yield the psychic energy that forms thoughts, memories, dreams, and emotions. Most would reemerge as healers, warriors, or scientists, taking their coveted positions in the hierarchy. A few, however would transform the energy into time and by traveling through the centuries, they would progress their society by preventing war and promoting progress.

In his desperation, Sam figured he had exactly undergone the same journey and the door he went through was probably a gateway, not into another memory but into another time.

A well-adjusted person wouldn't have been able to handle the pressure. Their mind would have broken a long time ago and they would have succumbed to insanity. Lucky for Sam, he was far from normal and his dad had trained him enough so that he didn't freak out at situations like this.

A thought, a possible solution floated across the thinning air but before he could contemplate it further the ground fell away and the nausea feeling returned. Sam tried to hold onto his stomach but it dropped away along with the rest of body as it fell through space and time. Maybe he should write a science fiction novel once he got out of this ordeal. Then again, he wasn't much a writer. That had always been Dean's forte—whether he admitted it or not.

As the abstract colors floated past him and splashed onto the pallid canvases, the world disappeared again and Sam nervously glanced around for an exit, a door—someway out of the wormhole.

He vaguely remembered a book that Dean had stole from the school library for him about strange creatures, a faraway galaxy, and a wrinkle in time. Apparently, the only way to travel through time was to utilize a tesseract—a matrix that existed in the mind. And the only way to navigate it was through thoughts. Figuring he had nothing left to lose, he closed his eyes and focused on a single thought—Dean waking him up and saving the day.

ooOOooOOooOOoo

The scene cleared and when Sam dared to open his eyes, he realized he was still in a hospital room but the figure that was slumped in the chair was far more familiar. The man was in his early forties, with raven curls that were sprinkled in gray—most of which Sam contributed to—and warm brown eyes. His skin was ashen and unshaven; he looked disheveled.

His father wasn't exactly the person he was going for but at least he was back in the present. Or so he assumed, considering the person whose hand his dad was holding was himself. While his mind was being torn asunder, his physical body was also suffering. Several IVs were threaded through the veins in his arm, a mass of wires were leading towards a machine that recorded his heart rate, and a breathing tube was shoved down his throat and taped across his mouth.

His father shifted and ran a slightly shaking hand across his face. "Sammy, why do things have to always be so difficult with you? It couldn't have just been a simple headache?"

Because I hate doing anything the easy way. I'm a complicated person. You would know that if you ever paid attention. The words fell on deaf ears but they made Sam feel better. For a millisecond, at least.

John sighed, a weary sound that spoke of a difficult life. "I'm sorry, Sam. For all the fighting and stuff. It was easier with your brother. His form of rebellion involved girls and bar fights. I could deal with that. But you're just different from that."

Sam rolled his eyes. His father was the only person who could make an apology sound like an insult.

"I always thought that Dean was the one who took after your mother. He's the calm, levelheaded one who'd give his life up to keep the family together. He's the one who takes care of both of us, who makes sure we eat, sleep, and don't kill each other."

Yeah, he's the one your proud of. The perfect little soldier who'd follow you into the bowels of hell and who you will never appreciate until it's too late.

"Truthfully, though you're the one who's just like Mary. Granted, you have the infamous Winchester fuse and stubbornness but you're temperament is hers. She was the one who'd talk to strangers without a second thought, who wore her heart on her sleeve, who was innocent and pure. She also loved school and books."

His dad cleared his throat and wiped away the moisture that was collecting at the corners of his eyes. "She was so smart and beautiful; I never did understand why she ended up marrying a loser like me."

Sam swallowed his protests and saw, for the first time, a grieving parent rather than an obsessed hunter. Figures he'd have to be at death's doorstep before his dad actually showed his human side.

"If she could see me now, she'd definitely kick my ass to kingdom come. I've really screwed up with you two; I know I never was a good father. The truth is I was scared. Growing up, my old man was—well he was more interested in the tequila bottle than fatherhood, and so the track record wasn't exactly great."

Sam shifted uncomfortably. He knew that his dad wasn't expecting him to hear these words. For so many years, the man had seemed larger than life and acted as much. For him to be vulnerable, even for a moment, it didn't seem real.

"When you mother was pregnant with Dean, she promised she'd help me be a good dad. Once she was killed, I didn't think I could do it on my own. I convinced myself that I was doing this for both your sakes. It was better for you to be safe and protected than happy and dead. What I didn't realize was how much I was becoming like the person I resented."

As his father paused for a second to readjust the blanket that was covering his shivering body (Sam hadn't even realized he was cold but now he couldn't seem to get warm) Sam wondered if the whole scene was another illusion. Or if maybe the lack of oxygen had caused brain damage.

"Your grandfather, he wasn't a good man. For most of my life, he made me feel worthless. He did things that I can never forgive. I swore I'd never be him…that when I had my kids, I would love them more than life itself and make sure they knew it. Things didn't go according to plan, though."

Geez, where was Dean? His brother was never cold, well except for that one time he was lured by a nymph into the freezing lake in the middle of a Wisconsin winter. Dean always was making fun of Sam for his hypothermic tendencies. He claimed he never felt cold because he was all muscle while Sam was just skin and bones; of course, he'd also surrender his blanket, claiming he didn't want Sam to freeze to death because then Dean would have to find another source of amusement.

"I'm used to disappointment. Life's never been fair for the Winchester clan—"

There was a knock on the door and both Sam and John jerked at the sudden interruption. The doctor edged into the room, giving John a sympathetic smile, one that had been practiced but still retained some sincerity, and walking through Sam.

"Sorry, Mr. Lawrence I didn't mean to startle you. I just need to ask you some more questions. "

John nodded and Sam shifted from foot to foot, rubbing his hands together to try and generate some warmth, but kept his attention on the doctor.

"I know you've been through the question and answer session in the paper work you filed but I just wanted to clear some things up. You mentioned when you first came in that Sam had a headache prior to the fall. Did you ever give him anything for it?"

"I was going to give him some Tylenol but we had run out, so I gave him an aspirin."

The doctor nodded and looked as if he was about to say something but stopped at the look on John's face. "Are you okay, Mr. Lawrence? You seem a little—'

"Exhausted? It's been a long three days."

"Yes, I heard about your other son's collapse. I talked to Claire um Dr. Cartwright. She said it was due to a preexisting condition and all the stress just aggravated it."

"Yeah, back when Dean was a kid he had some problems with his heart. Look, she told me that he was fine and they only medicated him was because he wouldn't rest otherwise, so if you don't mind…"

Preexisting condition? What the hell was wrong with his brother?

"Oh right. Well, I looked through the medical history you provided and I did notice that Sam's immune system is very peculiar. He does seem to attract particularly deadly viruses and such. I thought perhaps his defenses may be weakened due to another illness. You noted that you had a brother that died young."

"Um, yeah. He was fifteen," his father said, rubbing his forehead.

"The records claim that he had acute myelogenous leukemia. Now today it would have been very treatable but back in the sixties, it was considered an automatic death sentence. I am sorry it occurred."

Sam wished the doctor would stop apologizing and get to the freaking point.

"As you know, cancer is a very abnormal and difficult disease to understand. But there is promising information that claims cancer to be genetic. Since you do have a family history of it, I made sure to test Sam for it."

His father paled. Sam couldn't remember the last time he saw the man look so white. "He doesn't have it, does he?"

"The bone marrow aspiration proved him to be clean of any abnormal cell growth or cell numbers. However, this only indicates that it isn't a full-blown infection. Therefore, I preformed some more tests on his blood-work and once again discovered high IgE levels."

John took a deep breath and Sam tried to take one too because the room was spinning again and his breakfast, which Dean ate most of, was threatening to come back up.

"Doc, just tell me. Does my son have cancer?"

"No, but he does have allergies." The doctor was smiling now and Sam wondered if he was possessed or maybe a spirit. After all, he could have sworn the temperature in the room had dropped like fifty degrees since the man had walked in.

His father gave the doctor an incredulous look. "Are you kidding me? Sam is basically two minutes away from dying and you're saying it's all because of a stupid allergy?"

"Mr. Lawrence. I know that it might seem insignificant but some allergies are known be severe and deadly. They can develop at any time and don't need to have a hereditary history. I believe that Sam here is allergic to drugs in the NSAIDs family, particularly aspirin. It's rare but has been reported to occur.

"I was unsure because the documented cases are sparse but now that you've told me that he took it prior to his collapse, I'm certain that is what the problem is. Once it runs through his system, the effects should disappear and he'll be back to normal, as long as he avoids aspirins and certain other NSAIDs. I'll give you a list before you leave."

John nodded. "Thank you, doctor. I really appreciate the effort."

"Not a problem, Mr. Lawrence. It's my job."

"And since, you've done so much to help my son I will overlook the majority of this conversation. Most people who mention Mattie don't get away so easily."

The doctor looked a little taken back but shook the offered hand. "My sincerest apologies. I didn't mean to unearth bad memories. I was just trying to explain—"

Sam however lost track of the conversation as the wind howled in his ear and the room was suddenly torn apart. The colors blended together to form a white void but unlike before, the numbness had reset itself and the pain was slowly returning. It was similar to the feeling of pins and needles after moving a sleeping limb.

However, Sam wasn't paying attention to his surroundings. Instead, he was considered his father's last words. Mattie?

Reality and realization slammed into him and Sam let out a gargled gasped. The abuse, the prank-war, the handshake—John had mentioned something about his old man being a rotten person who had done things he could never forgive. Sam had always wondered why his Dad, the hard-core Marine, never considered corporal punishment as a proper method of discipline. The brothers from his little voyage through time hadn't been strangers—they had been his father and dead uncle.

The white void was slowly dissolving into sinuous shadows that slithered like a nest of serpents and an abyss was forming, forcing his astral self to step into the darkness. The pain, which up until now was a sleeping giant, awoke with a howl and continued its destructive mission.

Suddenly, Sam couldn't breath. It was like before but instead of a lack of oxygen being the culprit, this time there was something stuck in his throat, blocking his windpipe. He was chocking. Damn it. Why did it always have to be him that was strangled?

As he fought for each life-affirming breath, the erratic beeping of cardiac monitor and the swishing of the breathing tube faded into the background and his father's smiling face came into the forefront.

In the back of his mind, Sam Winchester sighed. _There's no place like home._

* * *

Was it confusing or lame? Please review. I am anxious to know what your thoughts are. At the moment I feel as if I'm twirling the baton in the Stupid and Dumb parade, so please leave some feedback.


	7. Birds, by the snow

Peace, by its Battles Told

By Scientist in the stars

AN: Last chapter. Finally the epic struggle is complete. I hope the story served a good purpose and I would like thank everyone who reviewed as well as those who didn't. I deeply appreciate your comments and thank you for taking your time to read, for a lack of better words: pieces of my soul. Hope you enjoy it.

Disclaimer: They're not mine but I had fun pretending they were...what can I say? I live in my imagination.

* * *

"**From this day forward, we shall join forces for a common purpose, and come to each other's aid in times of crisis**—are you serious with this? Because if you are, you've just reached a new level of lame."

"Just keep going. You promised me anything and this is what I choose."

"Fine…**We shall avenge the nation from above, and pacify the citizenry from below**—dude, this doesn't even make sense. We don't rule anything. Maybe we should update it a little. How about 'we shall avenge bad cookie-cutter pop music, wanna-be punks with safety pins in their ears, and of course the classic damsel in distress…'

"Deaaaannnn."

"Okay, okay. Chill kiddo….**We seek not to be born on the same day, in the same month and in the same year. We merely hope to die on the same day, in the same month and in the same year**—a little morbid but relatively cool and definitely true. There's no way I'd ever let you upstage me. Besides mourning is overrated and though I look amazing in black, the grieving look was so last season."

"I love you too, Dean"

"Chick-flick much? Sometimes I swear you were supposed to be a girl. Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah… **May the gods of heaven and earth attest to what is in our hearts. If we should ever do anything to betray our friendship, may the gods in heaven strike us dead**—well actually it's more likely that the demons in hell would strike us dead but you get the general idea."

"Okay, now let's bury these things…Aw, come on Dean. It's only a shirt."

"Dude, it's from my first concert. Dad gave me the tickets for my twelfth birthday. It was the only present that wasn't hunting related. We dropped you off at Bobby's because you were too young to come along and spent two days driving down to Mississippi. It was so cool."

"And I'm the sentimentalist?"

"No, you're the one whose most sacred object is a book. No wonder you're not getting laid anytime soon."

"Dean, I'm eleven. I don't care about that stuff."

"Yeah well, you should. There's nothing more important than girls. Or in your case, guys."

"Dean, I'm not gay."

"Whatever floats your boat. I'm not one to judge, little brother."

"Let's just finish the damn ritual."

"Yeah, yeah. Speaking of which, where did you get the crazy pledge from?"

"It's the Oath of the Peach Garden from the historical novel _Romance of the Three Kingdoms_. In it three warriors Liu Bei, Guan Yu, and Zhang Fei became sworn brothers in a ceremony amid peach blossom trees—stop laughing Dean."

"Sorry, kid but you're making it too easy. Okay, we'll do your little brotherhood ceremony but how about we do it Winchester style?

"What did you have in mind?"

"Just listen and learn, baby brother…During the witching hour on this night of Old Hallows Eve….

"It's not Halloween, Dean and it's the middle of the day…"

"It's called dramatic effect and don't interrupt me…we brothers Winchester stand upon these holy grounds to sanctify our brotherhood. Blood makes us family but a choice made us brothers. Heart to heart we pledge our loyalty to the cause and each other. Friends for life, brothers for eternity. Not even hell itself can split us up.

"Thanks Dean. That was really nice. See, I knew you could act like a normal person if you just tried—"

"And _from the houses of the holy, we can watch the white doves go/ From the door comes Satan's daughter, and it only goes to show/ You know…"_

"I give up. You're unbelievable."

"Come on, Sammy. Sing it with me. I know you know the words. _There's an angel on my shoulder, in my hand a sword of gold…_

Sam sighed._ "Let me wander in your garden/ And the seeds of love I'll sow/ YOU KNOW!" _

"Atta boy. Okay, this sucker is buried. So how long until we come back?"

"Another ten years or if one of us dies. Which ever comes first. Though, with our family's luck, I'd say the latter."

"Don't worry, Sammy boy, I'll take care of you. It's my job and it's also the one thing I won't screw up."

ooOOooOOooOOoo

Dean had screwed up badly. He had let down his guard, dropped the ball, and Sam had almost died. Granted logic told him he couldn't have stopped it. Sometimes life happened and all you could do was let go and move on. Unfortunately logic didn't do much to pacify the guilt.

His guilt was a shadow demon that hid in his subconscious mind, waiting for moments of fatigue or sleep. It wove nightmares and hellish scenarios, where a hundred futures and a thousand possibilities lingered in its crevices. It induced paranoia and damaged his instincts. If he let it take control, it was powerful enough to end him.

But he had Sammy to watch out for and so he learned to fight against it, to bury it instead of confronting it. He wasn't strong enough to win against it but he had learned avoidance from John Winchester, the very man who made it an art. And denial—well Sam, with his dreams of normal, thrived in it, and often tried to drag Dean down the rabbit hole as well.

Regardless of the circumstances and the weirdness that was Sam, Dean had still screwed up. It had been years since Dean had dealt with the possibility of his brother's death. 10 years in fact. Ever since the Striga incident, Dean hadn't let Sam out his sight. And when Sam needed him the most, his heart stopped. Literally.

"Dean?" A voice groggy with sleep and sounding a fraction of the actual age of the owner jerked him from his self depreciative thoughts.

"Yeah, kiddo. I'm right here." _But you deserve better, Sammy. _

"You're okay." Sam said with a soft grin that belied the trained hunter that was hiding behind the innocent boy exterior.

"Of course I am. It'll take something a little bit more than cardiac arrest to do me in. Imagine it, Dean Winchester: hunter extraordinaire being taken out anything less than a supernatural baddie in a pyromaniac display of fire and maybe a cliff."

"Hunter extraordinaire? I help out too, you know. And I saved you that one time in Massachusetts. "

"Yeah and that's why you're my faithful sidekick: geek boy extraordinaire."

"What happened to you? No one really filled me in on the details."

Dean sighed. "It's nothing to worry about Sammy. Just a bunch of medical crap; its really not that important."

Sam shook his head. "Dean, you're my brother. If it involves you, then it's important."

"Aww, Sammy. I'm touched. I never realized you felt that way—"

Sam scowled. "Cut the crap, Dean. I'm being serious."

Dean ran a hand through his spiky blonde hair—he'd have to get it cut soon (the hair drama with their dad was Sammy's thing) — and was about to make another joke until he recognized the stubborn look his brother's doe eyes. Realizing Sam would exhaust himself trying to get answers, Dean gave in.

"When I was younger, I had a heart condition called ventricular septal defect. Basically, I had a hole in my heart. It was something I was born with but it didn't start becoming a problem until I was three. I needed open heart surgery to fix it. I really don't remember too much about the whole thing except that Mom and Dad were really freaked about it. I also think that's when Mom started her whole angels speech. She said they'd always watch over me, especially when she couldn't."

Dean cleared his throat and turned his head for a second, to blink away any moisture that was trying to accumulate at the edges of his eyes. There was a reason he avoided bringing up his Mom in conversations, other than the obvious fact that it made his father sad. He also couldn't control the emotions her memories conjured.

"Anyways, there weren't that many complications and it hasn't bothered me much since. I just guess all this stress probably aggravated it and reversed some of the work they did."

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered, avoiding Dean's emerald gaze.

"Damn it, Sam. Why do you think I didn't want to tell you about it? You couldn't control what happened and so, whatever. The men in white fixed it and now we can pretend this conversation never happened."

"Despite what this family thinks, ignoring things doesn't make them go away."

"It does in my book. So change the topic, vomit breath."

Sam sighed but instead of retorting, he smiled.

Dean raised an eyebrow. Granted it was a genuine lopsided Sammy smile, with a hint of dimples and laughter shining in shy brown eyes that were hiding under unruly bangs, but Dean knew better. He had seen that same devil smile before and had ended up getting grounded for two weeks because of something that he for once had nothing to do with.

"Can I go home yet?" Sam asked, hopefully and Dean cringed. He hated disappointing his brother.

"No, kiddo. They want to keep you for one more day just to make sure the poison pill is all out of your system."

Sam looked as if he wanted to argue but seeing the stubborn look on Dean's face, he rolled his eyes and asked, "Where's Dad?"

"He's out." Dean actually didn't know where or what he was doing. The man had disappeared a couple hours after Dean had been released and whenever Dean tried his cell, it went straight to voicemail.

"Is he hunting something?"

"I don't know kiddo. He didn't fill me in on the specifics. He's probably just getting some air or something."

Though, Dean was pretty sure that if his dad was getting air it was probably the smoky cigarette haze and alcoholic fumes of the local pool hall. Either that or the man was drowning his sorrows in a bottle of Jack.

"But I thought you were a hunter extraordinaire. Wouldn't someone with your high levels of merits be privy to classified information like that?"

"Shut up Creeper. At least I can make the hot nurses smile without having to resort to getting naked like you do."

The smirk slid off Sam's face faster than the watery pseudo syrup on the cardboard pancakes that the hospital had served for breakfast. Dean had devoured his portion in less than ten minutes, Sam's in less than five, and had given into his brother's puppy-dog-eyes request for some real food in less than three...seconds that is.

"Don't worry, Sammy boy. I'm sure they're laughing with you, not at you."

Sam gave him a down-cast glance and Dean shook his head. "Don't even think you're getting my pity, little brother. If I give you an arm, you'll end up taking both of my legs as well."

Sam ducked his head and shot Dean the same look that had gotten the kid candy from every nurse over the age of forty. "I learned from the best."

Dean grinned. "Now flattery—that will you get far. Dude, your secret weapon might not be a die-hard body and killer looks (like yours truly) but you've got something far better. The good girls go gaga over that 'innocent kicked puppy orphan boy' thing and they're the ones you want to impress."

"But I thought you said that the easier the lay the more fun the—"

"Yeah, well you should know better than to listen to me on that topic. You're a traditionalist and I like to experiment. Trust me Sam. I saw that candy striper give you the once-over; you're doing just fine. You'll get you're apple pie life." _I make sure of it._

Sam nodded and then innocently asked, "So, when's Dad coming back?"

Dean groaned, his good mood fading as quickly as it had appeared. "Geez, you're like a dog with a bone. I don't know, okay Sam. He just took off and is probably knee deep in some mess he's cooked up thanks to his short fuse, loud mouth, and the excessive amount of alcohol that is probably floating in his system."

Sam winced. "Dad's been drinking?"

"Yeah, well he's been under a lot of stress lately. You know how he gets around this time of year. Add that to the fact that he almost lost both of his sons…I think he deserves a little down time. I just wished he had taken me along so I could watch his back."

"He probably didn't take you because that would mean leaving me alone and we both know that I can't be trusted to be on my own."

The beginning of the sentence was riddled in guilt while the last part was stated with a sarcastic edge. Dean sighed. He was hoping the near death experience would silence the teenager in Sam but unfortunately someone in the universal karma department really didn't like Dean.

"Sam, he trusts you. It's just that your track record isn't that great. And I don't think Dad's ever going to let go of what happened back in South Dakota…"

"In my defense, the exorcism would have worked but I couldn't find real lamb blood so I substituted."

"Sammy, you used ketchup and you tried to exorcize a _microwave_." Despite the exasperation in his voice, Dean was fighting back the laughter that particular memory always caused. They were supposed to be tracking a water demon but after his brother's panicked phone call, he and his Dad had raced back to the motel room only to find a ten year old Sam standing in a circle of salt, clutching a bottle of ketchup, and chanting Latin.

"It was a possessed microwave and that only happened once. Why is Dad's judgment of me always based on solitary incidents, especially ones where I screwed up?"

Suddenly, Dean felt very tired. "Sam, I'm not going to get into this with you right now."

Sam looked like he wanted to argue but luckily recognized the starting signs of the migraine that was steadily growing in Dean's head and nodded contritely. The silence only lasted for a couple seconds before Sam began on a second barrage of questions: Does Dad ever talk about his past? Do you think that the reason he gets sad sometimes might not be related just to Mom? Did you actually eat that meatloaf last night because I'm pretty sure it was moving?

The list continued on and Dean couldn't help but flashback to earlier years when the questions were just as numerous in amount but simpler in context. 'Why is the sky blue' was a hell lot easier to answer than 'why do bad things happen to good people.'

Granted some of the questions five-year old Sam used to ask were difficult, such as 'why don't we have a mom?' but back then Sam was Sammy, a kid still stuck in his hero-worship stage who thought his big brother knew everything. Nowadays, Dean felt Sam slowly slipping away as he took refuge in normal rather than family. Dean would never stand in the way of his brother's happiness and Sam wouldn't ever be happy as long as they continued to hunt.

He saw the way it had almost destroyed Sam before and he would rather go to hell than let it happen again. Without Sam, however, Dean wasn't sure he'd be able to win in the fight against his inner demons. Oh well. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made for the greater good and in Dean's book—there was no good greater than his baby brother.

ooOOooOOooOOoo

John took a swig from the bottle of beer and cast a weary glance toward the empty horizon. The broken gravel of an open road faded into a grassy field littered with faulted dreams and empty promises. Resting against the hood of the Impala, John tried to ignore the approaching darkness and glimmering stars that were indicating the late hour. He should have gotten back to his boys a long time ago but he couldn't seem to leave. He was afraid to face them.

He supposed that for once this mess wasn't his fault. Sammy's allergy to aspirin was unpredictable, random, frightening, and unavoidable but it wasn't his fault. He wasn't completely guilt free, however. His focused obsession on hunting and the supernatural had thrown off his radar in reference to anything normal. Had he been paying more attention, they might have caught it earlier.

But it wasn't the weight of responsibility or the fear of Dean's reaction, which wouldn't be as scary as it had been when the boy had first woken up from the medicated sleep but would still be relatively angry, that was keeping him from his boys. It was memories and issues he had thought he had buried along with the damn time capsule he and his brother had made, decades ago.

For once, John Winchester couldn't escape the fact that he was human nor could he run from his emotions. Currently, it was a buried sorrow, a forgotten pain that was resurfacing and he didn't want his boys anywhere within striking distance of it. He was their protector; it was his job to keep them safe. In another lifetime, he had been trained to be a soldier and now, amidst his most difficult struggles, it was the lessons of war that he relied on. He wasn't allow to be vulnerable but if it was inescapable (as it was right now), he couldn't allow them to witness it. They may grow in their reverence of him as a father but they would lose their respect for him as a leader. Right now, that forfeit would cost much more than it would provide.

Life is defined by moments, ones that are marked by memories and kissed by possibilities. His moments centered around one aspect—survival, because everything else was just a foolish game that idiots played in Death's playground where the consequences of falling are far greater than the price of happiness.

John was a smart man, whose innocence had been hardened by circumstance a long time ago. He understood his part and played it flawlessly but despite the image he projected, he wasn't a pawn in anyone's game. And his family wouldn't be a casualty in someone else's war.

* * *

Please review! And the song, the boys were singing is Houses of the Holy By Led Zeppelin.

Side note: Sam does not remember his "journey" because his astral self is a projection of the psychic portion of his mind; therefore the memories are buried in his unconscious and may resurface later (perhaps in future stories). Poor Sammy…as if his mind isn't tortured enough.


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